


A beginner’s guide to destroying the world

by Someplacefictional



Category: God of War (Video Games)
Genre: F/M, Kind of canon compliant but also kind of not
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 15:14:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29438100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Someplacefictional/pseuds/Someplacefictional
Summary: A story about old Norse myths - with an added, decidedly Greek, influence - and fathers and their sons.
Relationships: Atreus & Kratos (God of War), Faye/Kratos (God of War)
Kudos: 4





	A beginner’s guide to destroying the world

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations of the Old Norse names and phrases can be found at the end! I know that technically they’d be speaking Old Norse the whole time, but it’s fun to throw in a bit of the original language anyway. 
> 
> And if there are any mistakes - either in Norse or English - or if you have any feedback in general, please let me know! It’s always welcome.  
> 

#### A prologue 

**1\. Mímir**

One particular question continues to sit at the front of Mímir’s mind as he looks at the man before him: how much of this is an act, and how much of it real? It is still too early to tell. _He shifts about far too much for his own good_ , Mímir thinks, _maybe he’s become afraid of the dark since I saw him last._ And it was uncharitably dark in that small room - it sits below the Yggdrasil tree, tucked under curling roots, folded away like a chick under it’s mother’s wing. _It’s unfair to the artists really,_ he also thinks, who had spent so long painting the walls and carving images into the wooden roof, the beauty of their art only half glimpsed in torchlight. Yet still they had even gone to the trouble of making fabrics for the floor. Looking at them brings to mind the smell of a workshop and the clatter of looms, the intricate stories slowly coming to life in green and gold thread. (Step into the chamber, and there is an entire history beneath your feet). Ymir can be found in the wall if you take the time to look, and Mímir’s eyes are always drawn to that particular giant. They see through a pale white gem, the path of a chisel marking out their joints, the familiar slopes of the mountains glimpsed in their shoulders. A deep ache settles in the spaces between his ribs. He has looked too long. 

Mímir’s train of thought now completely derailed, his focus and attention on the other in the room is lost amongst his musings. He twirls the Gjallerhorn between his fingers as he ponders, letting it settle and then move from palm to palm. It is tracked by the other as would a dog if it were meat. That catches his notice again. _And did I not teach him to make his intentions less plain?_

‘Please fróðleikr gætir, I’ve travelled so far to see you and the fabled Mímisbrunnr. I ask you for just one drink of the water.’ Forgetting himself, the man’s attention is diverted to the well at Mímir’s hip, an imposing stone basin of which the bottom cannot be seen. But he hurriedly corrects his mistake, returning his gaze to where etiquette dictates he should place it: one face turned towards another. 

‘I beg you,’ and here he clasps his hands, places them over the centre of his chest, ‘I have made promises back in the realms of men and Gods.’ 

Mímir listens patiently, doing his best to seem politely thoughtful. It is an act which has become second nature, honed to a near perfection that only centuries as an advisor could instil. There are other leftover habits - his hands are itching for parchment and ink to make notes on this conversation. Transcribe, comes a voice from the back of his head, you must catalogue this and analyse it, down to every word and every gesture, down to every hesitation he makes. It is what he was taught to do. 

So much time has passed, but he can still conjure up the face of his old teacher. He can even recall the wide gaping sleeves of the brown tunic the man used to wear - he expects that detail sticks so well because once (in a particularly nasty winter) he had found some young birds, and Mímir had watched him hurry across the courtyard to somewhere warm and out of the cold with sparrows tucked in his sleeves. It was that man who had who shown him how to make parchment: all the intricacies of cleaning the hide, preparing it, stretching it thin, how to write so the ink doesn’t run; oh how he had loved it when he first wrote on vellum he had made himself. The tutor had guided him to a chamber of stone, with sloping desks and high shelves, expansive windows of latticed glass and white shutters, with beeswax candles in metal holders. Mímir had settled himself right beside a window, and the writing had come easy. He’d stayed in there for hours. In his memories the light is almost always a pale yellow in that room, like the primroses that had poked out from the meadows, or shown their delicate faces from under the bushes.

His breath is suddenly too much for his chest, the pressure building towards the top of his lungs, and it comes out in a rush he can’t control. He quickly moves on.  
’Well that’s your own fault now isn’t it? I’ve said the same to many before you. The well isn’t a gift I owe to anyone, even if they have just lovely manners. But you would do better if you were not trying to lie to me, Alföðr.’

The man is startled into a short, breathy laugh. ‘So you knew all along?’ he says.  
His voice (where it had been frail and weak before) is now strong, deep, powerful - traits it is famous for from Múspellsheimr to Hel. He casts his eyes to the floor, smiles. It is a gentle, soft thing, as they surprisingly often are with him.  
‘I should’ve know better, I suppose.’

And there it is. Mímir had been expecting that slight softening of the timbre. There is still thunder laced in the syllables, but it is not so harsh, morphing into a soothing rumble - it could almost convince you of anything it said, get you to trust in anything spoken, so gentle is the tone, and yet to do so would be as foolish as trusting a siren’s song to take you anywhere but the cliffs. It reminds Mímir of the old adage. He can’t quite remember it in full, but it was something to the effect of ‘Not even Odin could not change his mind’, for if you encounter someone particularly stubborn. 

‘Aye, course I bloody knew. I thought that Fjölnir was a name you had earned, Odin . Although credit where it’s due, it’s not often I’m proven wrong - in fact, this might just be a first.’ 

Odin has no immediate response to this, but his expression (an exasperated thing) tells much of what he is thinking: _you have not learnt to temper your sarcasm any more than I have learnt to deceive you._ He concedes all the same, giving up his disguise of an elderly traveler. To Mímir he looks like the grass snakes he had seen on occasion when he was young, swollen from their food, gently, gently shedding their skin, sliding off old remains. Sometimes he would take the translucent shell back to his desk in the room with the white shutters and try to sketch the thing. But the Allfather leaves nothing behind to be drawn. Everything that was one way shifts to something else. He retakes his true height, his imposing stature and strength, his unwavering posture; thinning grey hair becomes dark and full once again; his features lose any signs of age, untouched by the weight of his years; colour and health return to his once gaunt face; tattoos fade back in in dark lines. 

And as he looks upon his nephew for the first time in an age, he sees how much he has changed. Mímir moves closer, examining the finery that Odin has draped himself in, reaching out to brush his fingertips along the dark furs, taking a corner to study the hem. Well made. Expensive. His gaze falls to where light is catching on metal, and there to meet his stare is a beautiful armlet, an incredible work, the mastery easy to place: _Dwarves, without question._ Mímir smiles, knowing exactly what Odin wants him to say - _And what did I tell you about vanity, Uðr?_

‘You have the wealth of five villages on just your left arm. A fine lendrmaðr you would have made among men. I dread to think of the price for the rest of you.’ 

Odin laughs, genuine, booming. ‘You are an expert in flattery, Mímir,’ 

‘No, no, I’ve just been around altogether too many Kings.’ 

There comes a slight lull, which Mímir takes it upon himself to fill. ‘I guess that you’re not here for a catch up, are you?’ 

He used to like the back and forth that they shared, but those days were a ritual of long ago. They have been apart so long. Now is not the time, not when Odin _wants_ something. It’s strange, when he thinks about it, to remember how close they had once been, many winters ago in a world that was young, and with an Odin that was young too. 

There is smugness laced in the reply. ‘I thought you always told me to be polite when it came to bargaining? Nothing so fine as manners, Odin. But fine, as you wish. What is the price?’ 

‘The price?’ 

He sighs. ‘It is always the way of you advisors to answer questions with questions. I am talking about your well - the water. You said it wasn’t a gift, so I am willing to pay for it. You have seen for yourself that money is of no consequence.’ 

‘Yes, now, that might be so, but are you sure? Once you have done this, I can’t take what you have learnt away,

‘I’m sure. A laughing stock is a man who knows nothing. I want to rely on no-one else’s council but my own,’ 

’I... I really don’t think you will get what you want from this, Odin. Berre bok gjer ingen klok. Knowledge does not equal wisdom.’ 

‘I say again, I am sure.’

It gives Mímir pause, his eyes again drifting to the murals on the walls as he considers. Odin follows his sightline by way of the golden light, and tenses a little at the decorations, fists clenching and unclenching slightly where he believes the older man can’t see them. He’s sure Odin doesn’t realise what he’s asking for, not truly. _But we have always had a shared desire to learn, why am I surprised that his love hasn’t diminished any less than mine?_

This slow consideration doesn’t do much to reassure his nephew, who has begun to grow restless in the dragging silence. Desperation drives him to start talking again, offering something or other, based on the snippets Mímir catches between his own thoughts - _he never has been patient._ Looking up to him momentarily, he’s surprised to see the nervousness there. Odin can barely hold his eye, is worrying something between his fingers, the very picture of anxiety if ever there was one. But there comes that question again: how much of this is real? Is he acting? Mímir has never struggled to find the distinction in someone as much as he has in the Allfather. It gives him pause, sends ideas firing and crackling and arcing in his skull. He rubs a finger along his bottom lip, weighing up and turning over options as he tries to find some sort of way out of this. For, as much as he loves Odin, the knowledge from the well is not something Mímir trusts him with. He certainly does not believe it would better his character. In such a situation, what is there to do? A weakness, that’s what he needs, some sort of limit, a frontier that won’t be crossed. Throw him an idea, Mímir finds himself thinking, so absurd and ridiculous he would never say yes to it. And that’s when it hits him: Odin’s vanity. A solution might lie in that... 

Finally decided, the room around him rushes back to life in his ears, as it does when your head rises out from under water. 

‘-and that could be provided if you wish it. Or if you’d prefer-‘ 

‘Your eye.’ 

Odin’s hand quickly lifts to graze two fingers across his lid, his gaze briefly flitting down to his reflection in the still pool. 

’My... eye?’ 

’Your eye. That is the cost,’ 

‘Is it really all you will accept?’ 

’Yes,’ 

‘Not even-‘ 

’No-‘ 

’But there has to be something else! It’s ridiculous that-‘ 

’-This is ya last chance lad. Make your choice. Leave here with new knowledge and an empty socket, or with nothing at all.’  
Mímir laughs to himself: _this’ll teach the bugger a lesson about biting off more than he can chew._

That reaction and the grave look on the Allfather’s face gives Mímir reason enough to think he has won. He is so lost in the joy of the victory he does not notice what is going on in front of him until Odin is turning back around to face him. Mímir hadn’t even realised he’d moved. He starts wiping a small but well crafted knife against his furs, whilst the other holds something gently underneath his bloody fingers. The weight of Mímir’s error comes crashing down upon him, and he simply can’t bring himself to look at Odin s’ face. He knows what sight will greet him, and he knows there is nothing that can be done about it now. And shame, white hot, pure _shame_ is sending his stomach in knots and a nervous jolt down his arms. 

__

’You- you can put- you can put it in- um, in the well.’ 

__

Odin grunts his assent and gingerly places the eye into the water, before expectantly turning to the man on his right. Nobody moves for a while. It feels like the world has stopped on its axis. 

__

His tone is grave when he speaks at last. ‘Your promise, Mímir,’ 

__

’... aye, my promise.’ 

__

_I should’ve put this in writing,_ he thinks to himself, reluctantly filling the horn with the icy water, which is as clear as Elven glass in the sun. He passes it to Odin, who looks at it with a reverence such as Mímir has never seen before or since. He takes it in his hands with a surprising delicacy, fingers tracing the aureate patterns across the surface - those on his left hand are leaving red trails wherever he touches, dark blood still caked under the nails. (Later, Heimdall will try to scrub the thing clean again, but he will never be able to get out all the stains, a few pinkish marks still drawing nonsensical patterns, a few fingerprints gripping the horn like a phantom). Odin drinks, not with the desperation Mímir had expected, but a surprising trepidation. 

__

His hands are shaking when he finally lowers the horn, and one comes to brace himself on the stone edge of the well, a few drops of blood from where his fingers grip the rim falling into the water. It is the loudest sound in the room. Even breathing seems an effort to him from Mímir’s perspective, overwhelmed as he apparently is by the new knowledge, the weight of so much coming all at once.  
(He will only find out long after that, to Odin, it felt like an angry wolf was snapping at his ankles, about to sink in its teeth and grab him, drag him down to who knows where. Somewhere dark, a place where the air is thick and the water soured and the food like dust in the mouth).

__

‘You-you alright lad?’ 

__

A single nod comes in answer. 

__

It takes time, but Odin does find it within himself to talk in the end. ’Thank you, fǫðurbroðir, for your help, but I am compelled to say, your council - I believe it is wasted here.’ 

__

Mímir understands the ways of the God before him well after so long, and is perceptive enough to hear the unspoken question in that statement. 

__

‘Do ya now? Well that is something,’ 

__

‘What I am saying is that I think your advice would be of use beyond the roots of the Yggdrasil. You would not miss this dark place. In Ásgarðr, you will be well taken care of, in want of nothing for as long as you remain with us,’ 

__

‘I’m sure. But, generous though you are, my place is here Váfuðr. I have not travelled in, well, a very long time, to put it lightly.’ 

__

Odin shifts on his feet, and in answer to the delicate refusal, changes tactics. ‘I have a child, you know. A son. You might like to meet him,’ 

__

‘You? A fath- a bairn? Really? What’s his name?’ 

__

Odin’s gaze turns soft in a way Mímir finds he recognises, in a familiar way he has seen before. He had noticed the same look in his sister’s face when she had held her first son, who now (so many years later) stands before him. 

‘Thor,’

__

‘Ah, _thunder_. A strong name - a good choice for a child of yours. And how old?’ 

__

‘Not even one winter,’ 

__

Mímir runs his tongue along his top teeth, prodding out the pale flesh of an apple that had lodged there earlier. ‘It’s a little soon to be leaving the wee lamb then, wouldn’t you say? Especially for so long.’ 

__

Odin’s brows knit together, his fingers twitch. He merely hums in response. Mímir realises he’s sailing a little close to wind and let’s his face stay blank, like he hasn’t noticed, but chooses his next words with caution. 

__

‘Does he- does he look much like you?’ 

__

A smile. ‘Truthfully? No. He has his mother’s red hair for a start.’

__

Mímir smiles too, allowing it to blossom into a gentle laugh. ‘I’m sure he has your eyes.’ He can feel himself being slowly persuaded, the pull of home and family a distraction from why he would really be leaving, an advisor to the ruler of the Gods, a position he is not so sure he wants. 

__

‘Well, I suppose he does. But when you see him, you can judge for yourself.’ 

__

‘When? A little presumptuous that, wouldn’t you say lad?’ 

__

‘You are coming Mímir. _Aren’t you.’_

__

_By Jesu, it never stops with this one._ ‘Now, I didn’t say that Odin. You have put words in my mouth that were never there.’ 

__

Odin’s whole demeanour shifts, and yet he doesn’t make much of an effort to change Mímir’s mind. Whether the old man comes with him or not, there’s one thing he can’t afford to leave this place without, and it is the latter that he needs. 

__

’If you want to stay then that is your own choice, and I shall not try to turn you from it. But I warn you, I am taking this with me.’ 

__

He lifts the horn, again tracing the patterns with his fingertips. It is clearly dear to him, even so soon after seeing it. But it is Mímir’s, an honour given to only him, and it is a gift he would follow. 

__

’And why do ya need that laddie, hm? Ragnarök wouldn’t ring a bell, would it?’ 

__

Odin bristles at the tone, and begins another of his self-important speeches. It is a defensive habit which has only grown worse with time, despite Mímir’s early attempts to get him to shake it. 

__

’Do you forget to who you talk? I am the ruler of many realms and the places between them, I am more powerful than any other God that has walked these lands, I-‘ 

__

‘-goodness sake, hold your whisht boy! There’s no need for all that. And I suppose your son shall inherit his father’s temper well enough,’ 

__

‘But _you’re_ the one who-‘ 

__

’I think that’s quiet enough, Odin. You know how the old saying goes: Þrimr orðum senna skal-at-tu þér við verra mann.’ 

__

He raises an eyebrow and folds his arms, unhappy as ever with the joking taunts. ‘Very funny. You outdo yourself.’ 

__

Mímir is careful to tread the line between going too far and mere lighthearted jabs. One can laugh with Odin , provided you never hit too close to a nerve. You can even argue with him, if you like, but do not go into it expecting to win - you must fall on your own sword if you wish to stay on the right side of his temper. It is a dangerous balancing act, but one that is infinitely useful. It has distracted and diffused the genuine anger that was brewing, and Odin is too caught up to notice that that was the point. 

__

‘Oh dinnae be like that lad, I’m only messing a wee bit... Aye, fine. I’ll come with you, on the condition I have some freedoms. I won’t be made a dog following at your heel every hour of every day.’ 

__

Taken aback at the sudden change of heart, the ease to which Mímir has agreed and the simplicity of the terms, he merely nods. The horn is apparently of more worth to his relative than he could’ve imagined. What Odin did not know was that it was impossible to drink from the well without it, so really, Mímir would’ve had no reason to stay. He could hardly fight for it (although what a laugh that would be). His nephew is far too strong. 

__

‘As you wish then.’ 

__

Although a simple response, his relief is palpable. When Odin had finally tasted those waters, he had gotten more than he bargained for. He saw things of the present and the past, but he also saw some of the future. Ragnarök, the end of all things - the end of him. And on that day, Heimdall will blow the Gjallerhorn in their only warning, and the Gods will rise to battle. So Odin moves to take it, and perhaps this is the first piece in a long and winding puzzle. 

__

The Allfather does not wait any longer. He transforms into a raven and is bolting for the door before Mímir can so much as lift a finger. The bird is blacker than the coal in a Dwarven fire, darker than the most remote and closed off caves or the expanse of the sky at night. He moves with such a speed you’d think a wind had carried him, and is as quiet as if he had never beaten a wing at all. 

__

#

**2\. Odin**

If he rolled up the tablecloth and made off with it right now, how much could he get for it, at a push? It’s a dark blue silk, with a deep gold trim and tassels secured with broaches hanging at the triangular fold of either end. He grips it lightly, running his thumb over the surface, unable to feel the softness of it. At least he can see the thing, he supposes, turning the fabric to and fro to catch it in the light of the candles in their brackets. It looks like an ocean. His eyes follow the embroidery over the surface, tracing the patterns as they curl and intertwine. (Like the old stitching, his thoughts loop back around). If he could grab a corner, if snatching it out from under cutlery and food and cups would not stir even the dust motes in the air, he would do it. He would curl it around his arms and make straight for the docks at a dead sprint if he could. But he can’t. So he doesn’t. 

The atmosphere in the hall is tense and uncomfortable and not one person sat at the unsociably long table wants to be there - Baldur least of all, who keeps silent and remains focused on pricing up the cost of the silk tablecloth _(enough hacksilver to get me passage to the mainland, and keep me there for weeks if I’m careful)_ and the probability of being able to get past his father with it _(zero)_. No one had expected death on their own side. The result is incredibly awkward. Baldur keeps rubbing at his neck incessantly, has been doing so the whole evening, and it’s starting to get on Thor’s nerves. Odin speaks before he can do anything about it. 

‘Were they gone when you awoke?’ 

He turns, absently (if you didn’t know him), throwing a few pieces of meat to the two wolves curled at his feet, the subsequent sound of teeth through flesh, bone and gristle a needling threat, if ever one was necessary.  
Baldur warily glances to them both where they lie, bouncing his leg through the nerves, picking at a thread of his flaxen trousers until a small hole starts to appear.  
‘I tried to find a trail, but there was nothing. Too many footprints, too many directions, and they all died off in the end. Place was a mess.’

A pointed look comes from the head of the table. Baldur twists the loose thread around his finger, not realising how tightly until he checks and sees a purple ridge forming where he’s curling it around his joint. 

‘I _know_ , ok? I’ll find them. I just- I don’t,” he gives a frustrated sigh, rests his forehead on the heels of his palms, ‘I need somewhere to start.’

There is another pause. ‘Mímir. He will tell you,’ Odin says. 

Thor scoffs around a mouthful of food, laughs a little. ‘Because of course he must’ve seen them, from his handy position in a tree, on top of a mountain, at the end of an unreachable pass. You may as well ask a blind mule.‘ 

He takes a drink, and everyone relaxes, pleased that the test of the Allfather’s patience had passed. Shoulders drop and teeth unclench, fingers flex away the stiffness from when they had been in tight fists. It is all premature. Sif knows her husband better than that - it does not mark the end of his advice, only a respite. The jug goes down, and off he starts again. 

‘And anyway, even if he had you really think he’d tell you? Come on, he’ll-‘ 

The back of a heel connects with his shin, hard enough to surprise him into shutting up. He looks to Sif on his right side - who else could it have been but her? She stubbornly refuses to meet his eye. 

‘You are right, Thor, on all counts. He is a man who I have been less than... amicable with of late. It would be expecting far too much of him. But you are missing the point. We know for certain that they reach Jötunheim, how else can they get there but by him? If we reveal just enough to my uncle about what we want I believe he will help them, if only to spite _me_.’ 

This time it is Baldur who interjects. ‘And you’re going to just let that happen? He’s too valuable. Even if he tells us nothing, it’s much better than him telling those two everything.’ 

‘It is their only path, and by extension it must also be ours. Do as you are told. Go to Mímir and-‘ a smile appears on Odin’s face, one that Baldur does not like the look of in the least, ‘take Magni and Módi with you.’ 

All talk ceases at once. Caught in confusion as they are, no one seems to realise that there is a complete lack of response, so the quiet goes entirely unnoticed - it is the type of silence that comes when you subconsciously tune out the ticking of a clock, you don’t quite realise something’s missing until you try to listen for it again. Most of the pantheon is in agreement for a change, it would seem: the decision is to the distaste of absolutely everyone except for Odin and the Gods in question.  
But once the disbelief has faded, it comes. Like a swift kick to a hornet nest. Everyone erupts all at once.

‘That is the stupidest-‘  
‘They’ll be killed-‘  
‘Of all the ridiculous-‘  
‘What are they even going to _do_?’  
‘He can’t be serious, he just can’t be serious-‘

It is their father’s voice who cuts through it all in the end to attempt to dissuade Odin. It is a bold choice, and unexpectedly defiant coming from him. 

‘My sons? You must be joking, Odin. They’re inexperienced, they never stop and think, they fight and squabble more than any two beings I’ve ever heard in my life... If they die, father, they don’t get to come back. And then I will have only my daughter left. This is a terrible ide-,” he considers, and there is a changing of words, even he knows better than that. ‘I just ask that you think about this.’

A sharp interruption comes from further down the table.  
‘Thank you, father. You always were so _supportive_ ,’

‘Shut up, Módi!’ Comes a shout masquerading as a whisper from the same direction. 

Before he can respond to his brother, probably with some crass insult, the Allfather cuts in, levelling his gaze at the pair. 

‘I would advise you both to watch your tone.’ 

Under the scrutiny, Magni gingerly takes a cup and drinks as slowly as he can, whilst Módi fiddles with the edge of his plate and stares at his food as if it were talking to him. Both a desperate attempt to escape the embarrassment and the attention, as well as avoid meeting the grey eye of their grandfather.  
Mercifully, they think to themselves, Odin continues on.

‘And are you so different, Thor? How are they meant to improve if they do not try?’ There is no response, so he elaborates. ‘Baldur will be with them more often than not. They will be fine,’ 

’But I don’t understand. That man killed my brother, this is no time for a test. Where have I failed you so badly that you choose them over me?’

’Yes, exactly,’ Baldur hurriedly tries to back him up, ‘why not send Thor?’ 

’You must realise that this father and his son are getting too bold, disrespecting offerings, killing my ravens. They forget their place. I won’t allow them to start making a _mess_.’ 

In the true fashion of someone hiding something, he doesn’t really answer the question, but Baldur feels he understands. They’re a deterrent: strong enough to incapacitate, but not enough to kill. They still need both the man and the boy (if Baldur is following his father’s logic correctly) to get to Jotunheim. Accidentally or otherwise, control was a difficult thing to find among many of the æsir, and the brothers’ lack of power would act as a counterweight. 

Thor could still not let them go. 

’Odin.’  
_(Please)._

’This is a chance for them to prove themselves. Who, in the end, will be worthy of their father’s hammer? They are more use out there learning than in Asgard.’  
_(They’re expendable)._

‘But can’t you see? They’re not ready!’ 

Everyone had been waiting for Odin’s patience to finally grow thin, as it must when his judgement is being questioned. It was often sudden, his temper hung on a wavering string you never knew quite when would break. The fact this proved to be the scissors to the thread was jarring, if not surprising. 

_‘And I say they are.’_

That was all it took. He didn’t shout, didn’t in an outburst of emotion lose his calm. Odin rarely did, his was a deceptively controlled rage, and it was somehow worse. His anger was conveyed so subtly in tone, in posture. There was something not settling right when you looked at him or heard him talk, in a way no one could hope to explain. The whole air warped and distorted with his mood, it grew freezing, thicker - only Baldur was able to claim to be unaffected physically, but memories of the feeling from when he was a boy could not be so easily dislodged. The very ground appeared to shift onto its haunches.  
His anger sent fear burrowing into anything that had a shred of sentience to claim. It was _terrifying_.

‘I’m sorry, father. I-... I’m sorry.’ There was a long, long silence. ‘When will they leave?’. Thor’s voice was uncharacteristically meek. 

And that’s when everything went back to how it was. Or, that’s how it felt. The world is right side up because Odin is. 

’Soon.’ 

That marked the end of it then. Sif takes Thor’s hand under the table, squeezes it once. She hopes he realises what it means. _‘It’s ok, you tried, I love you, thank you.’_ She too feels her own distress. They are not her children by blood, but she is still their mother, and she loves them both dearly. 

The awkward quiet once again takes up its post for the night, growing heavier with every passing moment, draining into the room as water would into a bath. No one dares to speak, so much as cause a ripple for fear of the consequences. 

Baldur resumes his new habit, his fingers finding their way up from his lap to trace injuries that don’t exist. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> \- fróðleikr gætir = ‘knowledge keeper’  
> \- Mímisbrunnr = ‘Mímir’s well’  
> \- Fjölnir = ‘wise one  
> \- Berre bok gjer ingen klok = Merely book[s] makes none wise  
> \- Uðr = ‘ Loved, Beloved, Striver’  
> \- lendrmaðr = ‘nobleman’  
> \- nefi = ‘nephew’  
> \- fǫðurbroðir = ‘uncle’  
> \- Váfuðr = ‘wanderer’  
> \- Þrimr orðum senna  
> skal-at-tu þér við verra mann = An old Norse proverb. ‘Even three words of quarrelling you shouldn’t have with an inferior’
> 
> (And as always, thank you so much for reading!)


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